Apologies To Email Subscribers

I am so very sorry to my email subscribers!

WordPress has been particularly tricky these last few weeks and that has resulted in posts being published immediately when they should have been scheduled for later.

I know it’s annoying and especially so when accompanied by a broken link.

I’m trying my best to fix it. But truth is there’s not a lot I can do.

So please hang in.

Please hold on.

And forgive any irritating duplication.

❤ Melanie ❤

Don’t Be Shackled By Shame!

Shame is a shackle as sure as any chains forged from iron.  

And it often finds its home in the hearts of those who bury a child.

Bereaved parents may feel shame for lots of reasons:

  • Circumstances surrounding the death of their child-suicide, alcohol, drug abuse;
  • Inability to provide the funeral or burial they want due to financial constraints;
  • Missing signs or symptoms of an illness that may have led to death;
  • Family dynamics that pushed a child away from home or relationship.

The list could be endless-on the other side of child loss our brains pick apart every interaction, every choice, every moment that could have gone one way but went another.

Read the rest here: Shake Off the Shame

It’s Kind of Tender Just There

I’m pretty sure most everyone older than five has suffered a bump, bruise or sprain that left them tender for more than a few minutes.

And if you have, then you know the slightest brush up against that sore spot can elicit quite the reaction.

There’s an emotional correlate to physical bruising. And when someone hits that nerve it hurts. Really, really hurts!

It’s impossible to know where all those places are on another person’s body, much less their heart. So we often cause accidental pain to one another.

Many bereaved parents share some emotional bruises others might never see or think about. Lots of everyday interactions press hard against the tender places and make them hurt all the more.

I don’t expect family and friends to walk on eggshells around me, second-guessing everything they say or do. That would be awful for all of us!

But just in case you wonder, here are places my heart is tender:

  • Talking about Dominic’s “legacy”. I am still not prepared to discuss my not yet 24 year old son in terms that should be reserved for someone who has lived a long life and left a better documented trail behind. I don’t want him to have a legacy. I wanted him to have a life.
  • Ignoring his absence in family gatherings. Yes, we’ve added to our number since he left us. But it was never about absolute numbers! It was always about the faces around the table and shared laughter. HIS voice is unique. And I always hear the silent space where it should be no matter how loud and lively the celebration.
  • Weddings and children among his friends. No, I’m not sad at all that these precious people are living life, expanding their families and doing all the things young folks SHOULD do. But even as I rejoice for every single exciting milestone I also mourn the fact that I will never have the same opportunity with Dominic.
  • The smaller and smaller space Dominic occupies in daily life as time goes by. This is simply a function of human existence. Over six years of life have come and gone since he was here to make a memory, share a meal, comment on social media, be included in photographs. I can force the issue and bring him up in conversation or have someone hold a giant picture of him for family portraits but that is not. at. all. the. same.
  • Unexpected and unanticipated grief triggers. I still gasp inside when I see a young man speeding by on a motorcycle. Mention of certain topics, plans, courses of study take me straight back to conversations I had with Dom about what he wanted to do when he finished law school. Sometimes it’s the smell of soap or shampoo or coffee or grilled chicken-all things I strongly associate with his last couple years on earth and his first apartment.
  • Photographs of myself this side of child loss. Other people can say what they will but I see the toll grief has taken on my body, in my eyes and in the way my smile lies lopsided on my face. I want all the pictures I can get! I’ve learned too late that begging off because I’m not in the right clothes or don’t want to stop long enough to snap the photo is a mistake. But I’ve yet to line up for one where I didn’t feel Dom’s absence and wish he were there.
  • Crowds and unfamiliar places. I can’t claim to ever have loved being smashed together with others unless it were family. I used to be able to tolerate it better though. I guess it’s my last ditch effort to carve out control in a world that feels out of control that I avoid large groups and unfamiliar places. I can feel my heart pound faster at even the thought of such a thing.

I know specific circumstances and life experience make each heart’s tender places a little different.

Mine may not be yours.

I don’t expect (really, truly, do not expect!) that everyone (or even anyone) around me might take note of my own.

But I am still tender. And I may well still react.

Bruises are bruises even when we try hard to cover them up or protect them.

Tiny Flickers of Light


A fellow bereaved mom commented on my recent holiday post with this question: How do you make joy, when your heart has no joy?

It was a good and honest query. One that stopped me in my tracks.

Read the rest here: Flickers Of Light, Guiding My Heart Home

Looking For Normal

There are lots of social media memes floating around about 2020 being an interminably long series of disaster after disaster.

“If only it would end”, is the hidden hope whispered inside hearts longing for the calendar to turn from one year to the next.

“If only things would get back to normal!”

But there’s no magic in how we humans divide the days or months or years as this big blue marble travels round the sun and through the universe. It’s simply a convenient way to mark time.

And there’s no guarantee that time, by itself, rights anything. There’s no promise in the next sunrise that what’s been broken will be mended.

The rest of the world is learning what bereaved parents have known ever since the awful reality of child loss was laid at the door of their hearts: there’s no way back to “normal” once your world is violently torn from its moorings.

All you can do is assess the damage, pick up whatever pieces may still be viable and try your best to cobble them back together into usable shape.

(Photo by Giuseppe Bellini/Getty Images)

Some use the term, “new normal”, to describe a state that (most bereaved parents) eventually reach. A way of walking in the world with a profound limp, a wounded heart, a half-smile that hides tears threatening behind tightly closed eyes.

We make adjustments because we have to. The world doesn’t stop and ask permission before continuing on its merry way.

I would not wish this pandemic on a single soul.

I grieve (maybe more than many) over every person lost to Covid19. I cry every time I hear of another lonely elder separated by glass from human hugs and family kisses. I am counting the cost of witnessing traumatic deaths for nurses and doctors who have to hold hands as well as treat illness because visitors are not allowed in the rooms of the dying.

We haven’t begun to assess all the ways this pandemic is changing and will change us-individually and communally.

But if you’re waiting for 2020 to end, for a magic vaccine or for some other relatively instant and far-reaching cure to transform current reality, I think you will be waiting a long time (if not a lifetime).

I think, that like me, you will have to work through your own feelings and fears. You will have to decide what risks you can take.

You will have to figure out who and what in life is non-negotiable and hold onto that with both hands no matter what else happens.

Bereaved parents are good at this because we have to be.

If you are looking for trailblazers through unprecedented tragedy and unfriendly territory, follow them.

They can show you how it’s done.

Oh, How I Miss His Voice! Silent Echoes Haunt My Heart.

I try to limit the time I spend perusing old photos and old social media posts of my missing son.

I’ve learned that while they remind me of sweet memories and happy times they also prick my heart in ways nothing else can.

I was looking for something specific the other day and had to scroll through Dominic’s Facebook page to find it. As I did, I began reading some of the back and forth comments under the posts and pictures.

This time it wasn’t what was said or where the photos were taken that hurt my heart.

Instead it was the tiny little time stamp underneath the words that took my breath away.

Nothing more recent than five years ago was recorded.

Because that’s when his voice went silent.

Read the rest here: I Miss Your Voice: Silent Echoes Haunt My Heart

Walking the Valley: Trust After Loss

When this video popped up in my Facebook memories, I was tempted to skip it.

Three years ago I was in a very stressful season of life. My mother was seriously ill, my husband was working away from home and facing daunting challenges, my surviving children were in various stages of transition and I was just plain worn out.

But I stepped out in faith and accepted an invitation to share at a gathering for bereaved parents.

I was used to hiding behind my keyboard, having days to edit and refine what I would say; not opening my mouth and spilling thoughts without any opportunity to call them back.

It was truly frightening and I had no idea it would be recorded.

I don’t like the way I look. I don’t like the way I sound. But I love the message the Lord laid on my heart and enabled me to deliver that day.

So I’m being brave, being transparent, risking whatever judgement others might feel and some might voice to share it here.

{I’m no tech guru and have absolutely no idea how to edit the video so here it is in its entirety. If you’d rather skip the worship music segment, fast forward to the 30 minute mark.}

Three years later I STILL need to preach to myself. I STILL need to exhale my doubts and questions and pain and inhale the truth and grace of Jesus Christ.

I continue to circle round and round, revisiting questions and issues and feelings I thought I’d conquered.

And every single time He meets me there.

I am more convinced than ever that I am only able to stand in the strength and power of my Father God.

Every day I reach out and take hold of the hem of His garment.

And every day that is enough.

He said not ‘Thou shalt not be tempested, thou shalt not be travailed, thou shalt not be dis-eased’; but He said, ‘Thou shalt not be overcome.’

Julian of Norwich

Analogies. Why I Keep Trying.

Every day in this space I write primarily for the bereaved.

I try to share honestly and openly so others know they are not alone, are not crazy and are absolutely within the normal parameters of life after loss.

But I also write for those who are yet not bereaved but walking alongside a broken heart.

As many of us in the child loss community say, “you don’t know what you don’t know”. True enough. Yet it IS possible to help those who have not experienced our pain gain at least a bit of insight into what it feels like.

So I continue to frame my journey in terms and examples that might help them understand.

Just last night someone close to me had an “Aha!” moment.

Over a decade into my struggle with autoimmune disease I was finally able to offer an analogy that rang true with them and connected the pain and difficulty of my daily experience to something they understood and had felt for themselves.

It was glorious!

In a flash, this person recognized (at least on some level) what a struggle it is for me to do things like turn a door knob, hold a coffee cup, lift anything over a pound in weight, button my shirt, brush my teeth or drive a car.

All things they take for granted and do without thinking about them or making a plan.

So I keep sharing and hoping that one or more of the analogies I use for the ongoing struggle of life after child loss will ring true with friends and family and they will have an “aha” moment too.

I send every post out on the worldwide web with a prayer that somehow, somewhere a heart is strengthened, eyes are opened and life might be made just a tiny bit easier for those of us bearing this burden.

Life after loss is hard.

Nothing is as easy or simple as it once was.

I don’t want pity!

But I welcome compassion, understanding and grace.

***What analogies have you used to help friends and family understand this journey? Please share them!!***

Ready or Not, Here Come the Holidays…

We’ve reached the peak of Hallowthankmas in the stores.

I‘ve never liked smashing one holiday on top of another which seems, in my mind, to rob each of their respective unique characteristics.

I’m also particularly frustrated that Halloween-a “holiday” mocking death and focused on fear (for many)-occupies way more space in mass retailers’ aisles than Thanksgiving.

But I can no more hold back the onslaught of merchandising than I can the days marching resolutely toward end of year holidays even if I choose not to join the commercial bandwagon.

So here we are.

There are forty-four days until Thanksgiving and seventy-three days until Christmas.

Read the rest here: Holidays are Coming, Ready or Not!

Take A Minute To Remember How Far You’ve Come

It’s so easy to focus on the miles left to travel and forget how far I’ve come.

Life has a habit of reminding me that there are hills yet to climb, emotional hurdles still to come and (the ever looming threat) gray hair, wrinkles and an aging body with which to tackle them.

But every now and then I remember to take stock of just how many miles I’ve already traveled.

I pause, sometimes with pad and paper, and recount the bends, twists, devastating events and challenging circumstances I’ve already navigated (some by the skin of my teeth and ALL by the grace of God!).

Doing that helps my heart hold on to hope.

It helps me take one more step, one more breath, last one more sunrise to sunset. It’s a way of speaking courage to myself when I’m afraid I won’t be able to endure and might give up before I complete my course.

So if you are, like me on some days, feeling undone by long years stretching ahead or a particularly hard season already upon you, may I ask you to think back, to take stock, to answer a few basic questions?

  • Are you getting up each morning and caring for yourself and/or others?
  • Are you fulfilling job obligations (if you’re employed outside your home)?
  • Have you lost a job, changed jobs, found a job, retired or relocated?
  • Are you sending birthday greetings to friends, family and children or grandchildren (even if they are belated!)?
  • Have you celebrated important milestones with those you love (even if you cried before, during or after)?
  • Have you planned a wedding, baby shower, birthday party or other public event?
  • Do you pay your bills?
  • Have you resisted the urge to turn to food, alcohol, drugs or any other destructive habit or behavior in an attempt to numb your pain?
  • Do you take the garbage out?
  • Have you taken a shower recently?
  • Are you connected to a faith community/bereaved parent group/small group of some kind?
  • Are you still married or with a long term partner even though grief may have strained the relationship?
  • Have you or are you caring for an ailing family member?
  • Are you buying groceries/preparing meals/or otherwise feeding yourself and others in your household?
  • Do you practice self-care (exercise, journaling, prayer/meditation, rest and proper nutrition)?
  • Has your home life shifted significantly (empty nest, boomerang kids, elderly parents moving in)?
  • Do you/have you addressed health concerns and are you following recommended and prescribed treatments?
  • Do you maintain contact with those you care about (even with coronavirus limitations)?
  • Is there at least one thing you pursue that feels like a break from responsibility (reading, a hobby, pets, watching old movies…)?

Then you’ve covered miles, my friend.

You are making progress.

No matter how much is left to travel, you have it in you to make it!

Winnie the Pooh Braver Than you Believe and Stronger Than You | Etsy